


A Kiss With A Fist

by alphaenterprise



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M, a little more nsfw than my other fics, chaleigh, lots of handwaving concerning the timeline of the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaenterprise/pseuds/alphaenterprise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A kick in the teeth is good for some, a kiss with a fist is better than none.</i>
</p>
<p>They meet eyes briefly, assessing, and Chuck whirls forward with a battering of pure strength and brute force. Raleigh parries, hands sliding to each end of his staff to block, and he pushes upwards until his staff is a hairsbreadth away from Chuck’s nose.</p>
<p>Or, the one where a kiss with a fist is followed with a little more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss With A Fist

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted finally from my tumblr (alphajaeger!)
> 
> written for brittany who is the chuck to my raleigh, and also futzes about with the timeline of the movie by putting raleigh in hong kong much earlier than canon dictates. i didn't really specify any sort of time frame except for the fact that kaiju don't emerge from the breach almost right after he drifts with mako, pitfall is later, etc. it kind of delves into some of my old headcanons.

Nighttime finds Raleigh in the Kwoon, drawn to the emptiness of the Shatterdome because of a restlessness that has sunk into his bones. He hasn’t slept well in a long time, but he’s unused to the intense energy that hums in his feet and bones. His failed drift with Mako sears the back of his mind, her memories and his coagulating almost like blood until he sees Yancy die under Onibaba’s feet and feels the utter joy of Coyote Tango’s drop down to his toes.

 

His feet pad quietly on the large mat when he initiates the ‘shut’ command, breaking the ambient noise of air conditioning units and general sound created by the extensive size of the ‘dome itself. He wonders if Gipsy is mad at him or if the other Jaegers make fun of her for the incident, and then spares a breathy chuckle at his own expense because the Jaegers can’t do that.

 

A slow burn builds in his shoulders when he begins to flow into stretches that agitate the lengthy scars that ache even years later. He brushes it off with careful determination and five years and four months of practice, closing his eyes to concentrate his breathing and to tune out any residual pain.

 

So it’s a natural reaction to recoil and drop into a fighting stance when he opens his eyes again and comes almost face to face with one Chuck Hansen. The Australian’s cheek is still red and swollen and his jaw is ever set in his particular expression of a strange combination of anger and arrogance that Raleigh can’t tell if it’s warranted or otherwise.

 

"Scared?" Chuck sneers, and all Raleigh notices is the split in his lip and the way the skin is chapped and sluggishly bleeding. "Raahleigh?" and he tacks it on with a growl, knows from the brief pull in Raleigh’s jaw that it digs under his skin like a burr.

 

“‘scuse me.” Raleigh says thinly, tamping down his anger with some effort, and beginning to grab for his sweater that he had folded neatly on the minimalistic bench on the wall.

 

"Wanna fuckin’ fight?" comes the belated, almost grudging question, and it makes Raleigh pause mid-step and slowly look back with an incredulous expression stealing across his face. "To spar, you fucking wanker." Chuck clarifies, shoulders squared and spine straight as a razor. His stance is militaristic, and it reminds Raleigh vaguely of how Aleksis stands, except Chuck would look like a flimsy piece of paper in the Russian’s wake.

 

"Yeah." he finds himself saying, shoulders lifting in a shrug, and offers a small nod. "Sure, why not." he feels like a nervous animal, wary as Chuck pulls a set of the lightweight staves from their containment unit, and expertly snatches his out of the air when it is tossed to him.

 

"Can you keep up, old man?" Chuck’s taunt is weak, all bite and aimed more to rile him than to actually insult him, and Raleigh retaliates by tapping the tips of the lacquered red wood on his way to his side of the mat.

 

"First to four wins." the blonde says instead, firm and unrelenting, and spins the staff over his knuckles to ground himself. "Same rules as drift compatibility testing."

 

Chuck’s step is entirely different from Mako’s; he’s like a wall while she is limber and lithe. Raleigh knows he can brawl, but isn’t entirely sure how sparring will work out unless someone’s hand ‘slips’ and it turns into a punching match. An ugly purple bruise is visible through Chuck’s white tank top, smeared over his ribs from where Raleigh threw him into the metal piping the day before, and he feels his own bruises from the Aussie’s knuckles twinge at the memory.

 

"Ready?" comes the loud query, and the adrenaline is so obvious that it’s almost tangible. Chuck’s got his hands locked around the staff itself, knuckles standing out prominently when he adjusts his grip, and his back is curved with practiced ease and confidence that is well deserved.

 

Raleigh moves quickly, deft and easy, their weapons sliding along each other with a loud clatter. His body follows forward, testing his opponent’s response and reaction, and he knows that Chuck is doing the same when he swings over to essentially switch spots.

 

They meet eyes briefly, assessing, and Chuck whirls forward with a battering of pure strength and brute force. Raleigh parries, hands sliding to each end of his staff to block, and he pushes upwards until his staff is a hairsbreadth away from Chuck’s nose.

 

"One-zero." he grins, the expression small and only partially forced, and he knows that if there’s one thing that they can find an ease of existing over, it’s fighting.

 

Chuck’s lip curls in the corner, almost enough to qualify as a smirk, and the split in the corner pulls with the motion. He feints and damned if Raleigh doesn’t fall for it, swinging his weapon upwards only to have smooth wood tap his shoulder with a gentleness that surprises him.

 

"One-one." drawls Chuck, whirling his staff in a neat circle, and falling back into his stance when Raleigh bounces on the balls of his feet as if it can alleviate the restlessness that is coming so alive.

 

They trade blows, back and forth, until Chuck’s weapon comes smashing into Raleigh’s shoulders hard enough to make his vision go white and his nerves sear with blinding pain.

 

When he stumbles and comes down hard on his knees, he catches himself clumsily on elbows and feels a familiar anger light up in his gut. “What the fuck?” he wheezes out, struggling to get his bearings after the violent surge of agony that grounded him in the first place.

 

"Oh fucking shit." Chuck swears, sudden and loud, and his hands are warm and damn when they come to rest on Raleigh’s shoulderblades as if that would do anything. "Thought you’d fucking doge it, you stupid codger, goddamn, don’t fucking move."

 

"What the fuck." Raleigh repeats, rough and like he’s choking on his own spit, and comes up on his elbows so slowly that his muscles shake. He slumps so much that his spine almost arcs perfectly when he finally sits up and braces his forearms on his knees as if it is a herculean effort to do so.

 

"Jesus H. Christ, I didn’t fuckin’ expect that." comes the disgruntled snap, and Chuck’s hand hasn’t left his back for some strange reason. "You’re like a fucking cat, you right idiot, god."

 

"Shut the hell up." Raleigh says tiredly, rubbing his eyes to try to clear the sparks, and hisses when Chuck presses the heel of a hand into the ache. "Ah shit, stop it, Hansen!"

 

"Shut up, you." Chuck fires back, digging a slow circle into the muscle of his left shoulder. His hands are inordinately warm, but it doesn’t matter because it hurts like a fucking bitch. "You are a fucking infant, Becket. It will help, so shut yer gob and take it."

 

Raleigh settles for elbowing his gut with vindictive glee when he finally can stand, wobbly on his feet, and smirks when Chuck’s extended helping hand is more of a ‘haul’. “Not too bad.” he concedes when they pick up their staves again, bracing on his moreso for support than for show, and fully expects Chuck to push on with their match. The clock reads 02:36:07 in bright green numbers, projected as a marquee across the tops of all of the public walls in the ‘dome, and Raleigh finds himself beginning to edge into exhaustion.

 

Gently, Chuck taps their weapons with a light clickclack, and his expression is something that Raleigh can’t identify for the life of him. He’s less angry, still cocky, and some other combination of everything else that makes his addled brain protest at the amount of thinking necessary. The staves slide along each other when Chuck twists his wrist, the sound loud but strangely unobtrusive, until their knuckles knock together when their grips meet.

 

Raleigh can see the crack in Chuck’s lip that has gotten a little bigger and has bled a little more and can see a small patch of bruising from the conn pod of Striker Eureka from the past few weeks and the fight in Sydney with Mutavore trailing down his side.

 

And he isn’t sure what to make of the feeling that curls in his chest, but he finds himself grabbing at Chuck’s tank top in the same moment that Chuck takes a step forward into Raleigh’s personal space, and then they’re kissing and Chuck’s lips are way more chapped than he thought they were and his stubble is coarse as sandpaper, but it feels like mercy and pure warmth all in one. It’s fervent and gentle at the same time, as if neither of them are sure if it qualifies as ‘okay’ or if one or both will be receiving a black eye for it.

 

They part only marginally, breath mingling in the small amount of space, and they study each other guardedly.

 

"Not gonna try to beat the shit outta me?" Raleigh finds himself joking, quiet and breathless, until Chuck’s expression twists up into an all-out smirk.

 

"Nah." he mutters, crushing their mouths together with an almost desperate edge, "Figured we’d fuck." It’s an attempt at nonchalance, laid thickly over a layer of anticipation, and how can Raleigh say no when he feels the dry skin of Chuck’s lips drag across his own?

 

"Yeah." the blonde agrees breathlessly, stumbling when they part like a drunken teenager. He shrugs his sweater on clumsily, back twinging sharply at the movement, and groans when Chuck crowds him into the corner while they’re trying to get the training weapons put up. "Not in the Kwoon, they’d skin us alive."

 

"Probably." Chuck hums, reluctant, and they fumble with the weapons case until the room is as clean as it was before they got there. "Mine or yours?"

 

"Not fucking with Max in the room." Raleigh says, almost offended, and earns an eye roll. "It’s closer to the Kwoon; you’re all the way over by the Jaeger bays."

 

"But the main reason is the dog." Chuck bites at his neck when they come to his door, all but pushing Raleigh against the cold metal until he gets it open, and has no problems slamming it when they hurry in.

 

"Not in the mood to deal with your dad, either."

 

"Can we not talk about my fuckin’ dad?" comes the expected gripe, which gets Chuck an eye roll so hard that the Jaegers could feel it. "Come on you daft drongo, we’re burning time."

 

Raleigh finds himself laughing, muffled when Chuck kisses him again with all tongue and teeth, a little at the alliteration but mostly at the word ‘drongo’, and threads his fingers through Chuck’s hair and pulls experimentally.

 

It’s strange and surreal to have Chuck Hansen bearing down on him like it’s natural, to see the Australian in such a state. they’ve been in contact for a month and a half and have griped and fought the entire way and if the war clock wasn’t running at a distressingly high number and if they weren’t going to be running an impossibly huge thermonuclear bomb at the breach in the coming days or weeks then he wouldn’t know what to make of it.

 

He can’t deny that Chuck is attractive, especially when he pins him to his own bed and presses his thighs on either side of Raleigh’s narrow hips. Chuck’s abdomen flexes when he tugs his shirt off, shamelessly baring his bruised torso to the rapidly heating air in Raleigh’s room. The bruises from when Raleigh tossed him into the pipe in front of Pentecost’s office are still dark as night and he can’t resist pressing his fingertips to the tender skin until Chuck hisses and mashes their mouths together again.

 

Chuck is fond of teeth, Raleigh decides when Chuck manages to coax a muffled groan from his chest by biting at his lips and jawline in a pressure that is just on the edge of too much. He explores without any prompting, dragging his callused hands up Chuck’s sides, skirting along his nipples and across his collarbone, until he cups his prominent jawbone to drag him in for a proper kiss.

 

Chuck is fond of kisses too, apparently, because he melts and is so unbelievably receptive that Raleigh wouldn’t believe that Chuck Hansen is in his bed. The other pilot tugs at Raleigh’s sweater, sitting back to let him pull it and his old tank top from his chest. They make fleeting eye contact, unsure of what to say.

 

Raleigh hasn’t ever been much good with words in situations, much less situations like these, and he knows that if Chuck wasn’t running on the ‘oh my fucking God I’m going to be going on a suicide mission’ adrenaline high then he’d be sneering until kingdom come. So he threads his fingers in Chuck’s short hair again, pulling until he’s peppering hot kisses and gentle bites along the line of Chuck’s neck across his freckled shoulder.

 

He groans, blunt nails coming up to trail down Raleigh’s back from the middle and down, and grins with hooded eyes when a deep hickey is sucked into existence in one of the most obvious spots. “Feeling a tad showy?”

 

"Gotta claim it when you can." Raleigh’s voice trails off when Chuck reciprocates, dotting a set of bruises across the edge of his shoulder with surprising ease. He is pleasantly surprised to find that he doesn’t much mind, filing it away to examine at a later date.

 

"Yeah." comes the breathless agreement, Chuck’s grin turning catty as Raleigh lets out a low groan when he rolls his hips downwards. "You like that Raahleigh?" his voice is husky, thick with pure sensation, and Raleigh doesn’t even care that he shudders bodily when Chuck tongues his scars.

 

"Quit fucking around." he gripes, voice breaking when Chuck’s hips grind down and their clothed groins press tightly together. His hipbones are sharp and slot neatly against Raleigh’s, digging into his skin almost enough to be uncomfortable, and he cannot resist undulating his body in retaliation so that the friction created is deliciously rough.

 

"Impatient." Chuck mutters, reaching down to rub Raleigh through his cotton pants.

 

"You were the one saying we were burning night." he manages to snip back, sliding his hands down the length of Chuck’s back and cupping his firm ass with a languid grin of his own. He kneads the muscle with as much grace as he can manage, internally appreciating how toned Chuck is with a mix of excitement and apprehension at how quickly he finds himself being alright with this.

 

The response Raleigh gets makes him choke on a moan, pulled suddenly from his lips when Chuck gives the outer thigh seams of his pants a slow tug and manages to take his underwear with it and then deft fingers are wrapping around his cock with just the right pressure. Chuck’s grin is almost feral, teasing and lustful and proud all at once, and he supports himself above Raleigh with his free hand without missing a beat.

 

"Fffffuhhhck you." the blonde huffs, shivering when Chuck twists his wrist in a slow, practiced motion, and retaliates by digging his blunt fingernails into each side of Chuck’s spine and dragging them down until he hits the waistband of Chuck’s pants.

 

"Other way around, mate." comes the drawl, and the eagerness that floods Raleigh’s muscles when he feels the other pilot’s hardness pressed up against his thigh. "What d’you got?"

 

"Not a lot." Raleigh admits with a thick tongue and a barely working jaw, and he is telling the truth. He came to Hong Kong with only the intention to crawl back into a Jaeger and be a pilot, not to find himself in bed with Chuck Hansen. He decides that since Pitfall is just around the corner, skipping out on a condom won’t be the end of the world since it’s already here.

 

Especially not when Chuck clicks the small container of lube closed and returns with questing fingers. He leaves a smear of slickness in his wake and looks up at Raleigh from where he’s bent, one elbow beside his lower abdomen, with an expression that is so intense, he finds his heart pounding a rapid tattoo in his chest like he was fifteen again. The Australian is like a supernova, burning bright and all at once, and is surprisingly, impossibly gentle when he pries Raleigh’s body open for him.

 

"Godfuck." he manages, spine coming off the bed when Chuck’s ring finger pushes into him in one slick movement. He fumbles for something to ground him, one hand clutched to the bedsheets and the other coming to the side of Chuck’s head in a gesture that is uncharacteristically, impossibly intimate, and he isn’t even embarrassed at the whine that tears from him when Chuck’s fingers pop free. "What the actual fuck, Hansen - "

 

"Gonna fuck you now, quit being such a needy wanker." Chuck tells him thickly, stripping down and tossing his pants on the floor with Raleigh’s with the same confidence that he sports. He puts an almost unnecessary amount of lube on his cock - it makes Raleigh wonder if Chuck is concerned about his well-being for some inane, ridiculous reason - and then Chuck is looking at him with question in his eyes.

 

"C’mon." Raleigh encourages him, breath hitching in his chest as Chuck slides home in a slow, easy movement.

 

They both are still as stone, both of Chuck’s arms having come up to support the backs of Raleigh’s knees, until his hipbones are jutting into Raleigh’s thighs and he can’t do anything but look at Chuck. They’re a fucking mess; both Jaeger pilots, one who has too much anger and one with too much sadness and both with too much pain, and Raleigh feels the faintest spark of understanding when Chuck comes forward with hands on either side of Raleigh’s head.

 

"Fuck." the Australian gets out, strangled and cracking, and Raleigh feels almost out of his own body as he wraps his arms around Chuck’s neck and pulls.

 

"Fuck me, Hansen." he demands, and it’s really more of a plea that is whispered into the crook of Chuck’s neck with such a reverent tone that he can’t do anything but oblige.

 

Chuck is surprisingly silent, focused like a laser as he sets a pace that quickly turns paradoxically, sweetly, brutal. The purple bruise on his ribs flutters with his panting and movement, and Raleigh is enthralled because he can see the brightness of stars in how dark the bruising is. The pain is pleasure and his emotions are so turbulent that he can do nothing but bask in them; he digs his fingertips into shoulders and biceps and whatever he can touch and revels in it.

 

When Chuck pulls away from him, he lets go lethargically, unwilling to remove his face from where he’s tucked it into the Aussie’s neck, but the new angle is all kinds of perfection, especially when Chuck discovers how bendy Raleigh is and braces the backs of Raleigh’s thighs on his chest and his knees are over Chuck’s shoulders, and he’s so deep inside Raleigh that he isn’t entirely sure who is who. Not when Chuck finds his prostate on a particularly hard thrust and Raleigh comes with a shout that leaves his throat raw.

 

"Hansen, fucking - Hansen, Hansen, Chuck..!" is the only warning he gives, cracking and muffled by the back of his hand to keep his volume down.

 

It’s unexpected and sudden and crashes into him with all the force of a tidal wave, and he isn’t sure what he’s saying, but he’s almost sobbing with feeling and nonsensical, broken words. Chuck is there again, mouth covering Raleigh’s - maybe to get him to shut up, maybe because it’s more addicting than alcohol on frayed nerves - and hips beating into Raleigh’s skin so rapidly that he knows that he’ll have extra bruises to tack on to his growing collection, and Raleigh holds onto Chuck like he’s the drift and his memories are threatening to sweep him away.

 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Raleigh." Chuck’s voice is muffled when he speaks into Raleigh’s mouth, like he’s speaking from beneath a pillow or blanket, and he pulls out in a strange gesture of politeness. His spine curls, and he’s arched over Raleigh when he comes. His face is buried in Raleigh’s neck, nails digging into his shoulders, and Raleigh can’t find it in himself to be disgusted at the wet spot in his bed when Chuck collapses, half on and half beside him.

 

"Not bad." Raleigh slurs, light and airy, and throws his jelly legs over Chuck’s bony knees without care to the grunted protests. His arms come up, equally clumsily, and he presses his nose against Chuck’s temple with sleepy affection.

 

"Shut the fuck up." comes the reply, surreal and without much heat at all, and the sense of strangeness isn’t enough to fight off impending sleep.

 

Raleigh decides he’ll explore this at a later date, because Chuck is warm and comfortable and he’s incredibly exhausted in the best of ways, and he has a feeling that they’ll get to fighting again. If anything, he’s gotten a strange insight on Chuck, and when Chuck curls his fingers possessively against Raleigh’s hip, he feels like he’s passed some sort of test.

 

He sleeps, victorious and sated, and resolves to beat Chuck into the Kwoon’s mats in the morning as a gesture of good faith.


End file.
